La Douleur Exquise
by Cerise2U
Summary: Non-canon of Elena Lincoln. Please note that this story does NOT include lemons with Christian or any underaged individual.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

One must do violence to the object of one's desire; when it surrenders, the pleasure is greater.

\- Marquis de Sade

I have no regrets about the way that I lived my life. I wasn't abusive or exploitative. I merely enhanced the lives of troubled men – young and old. My greatest achievement to date was Christian Grey. Christian, my paramour for almost six years, is a successful billionaire. I shaped him to be the man that he is. I've done more for him than his parents ever did, and I will never receive the proper credit for it.

My story began during the summer of my twenty-third year. I spent a month in my beloved Paris. The nightclubs, bars, and bistros were alive with a raw sexual energy. The second day of my visit, I wandered the streets of the fourteenth arrondissement looking for speakeasies, underground sex clubs and dungeons. Kissing couples wet with a mixture of sweat and saliva intertwined and undulated against each other.

While seated at the bar, I transfixed on a handsome, young couple going hot and heavy in one of the neighboring booths. My presence provided inspiration to their coupling. I expected the woman to slide into the nearby chair and whisper, "Voulez-vous coucher avec nous?" To which I would nod an affirmative "Oui, Madame" and walk with her hand-in-hand to my next orgasm.

My fantasies were interrupted when the bartender sat a glass of champagne in front of me while gesturing towards the back of the club, "Madame, l'homme là-bas vous a envoyé du champagne." I followed the bartender's gestures and my eyes landed on a perfectly coiffed, dark-haired man in his early thirties. Tall and handsome, he was attired in a narrow fit dark suit accentuated by a white silk lapel scarf.

I responded to his raised glass with a smile and a wink and turned back to the couple who was now in the throes of a good finger bang. The man walked across the crowded dance floor to introduce himself. In broken English, he introduced himself as Mathieu. He seemed relieved when he learned that I was fluent in French. I learned that Mathieu was an up and coming restauranteur.

After drinks and pleasantries, Mathieu politely asked me to sit on his face. We proceeded to a dark and quiet private room where I willingly obliged to his request. I enjoyed the ride so much that I spent each day happily sitting on Mathieu's face.

I not only learned that he was gifted with his mouth, but he owned an opulent six room flat in the seventh arrondissement with Eiffel tower views. I spent the remainder of my time eating at fine restaurants, shopping with his credit accounts, and enjoying the Paris lights.

After a month, I had enough of the Parisian scene and Mathieu. I booked a return ticket back to my home state of Texas. I contemplated skipping the trip back to Texas and staying with him indefinitely, but there were too many hurdles to make our relationship last. I knew Mathieu wanted a traditional French wife - a sophisticated woman who was a lady in public and a freak in bed. I wasn't ready for that.

I was Elena Marie Mitchell, the only child of James and Eleanor. My father was the proverbial Texan oil man. He was known as a big talking, broad shouldered man with a gentle smile and a boisterous laugh. He showered my mother and I with attention and created the perfect life for us.

My mother, Eleanor, was a Texan socialite. Her father is the former governor of Texas and the owner of one of the largest oil patches in the Southwest. That's how she met my father. Ten years her senior, my father was, a senior-level advisor to my grandfather. My father was a young, rising star in the oil industry when he bumped into my mother. They crashed as he exited my grandfather's office while she entered the office. After the crash, they immediately fell head over heels in love with my mother. Their short courtship led to an intimate wedding ceremony at my grandparent's compound. Less than seven months later, I was born.

My relationship with my mother rode an emotional rollercoaster. When it was good, we were best friends. But when it was bad, a dark gray mood surrounded and swallowed us whole. I don't believe that my mother wanted a daughter. I don't dare say that she is jealous of me, but I do believe that she wasn't pleased when I grew up to be a younger, prettier version of herself.

We had fundamental disagreements on success which contributed to our rocky relationship. I believed that success comes from hard work while my mother believed that success came from being pretty. In high school, I challenged myself to achieve high marks in Science and Mathematics. My sophomore year in high school, I won the award for the second-place entry into the science fair. My mother would have preferred to be anywhere but at the ceremony. I won the second place prize. My caring and warm mother, spat that I should be happy I lost. In her mind, scientists are always little, ugly girls. Before my father could scold her, she said that I would do myself a disservice by spending all of my time with beakers and developing hypotheses. "Elena, you are pretty. You don't have to be smart." The words rang in my ears for the rest of my life.

Like my mother, my only job was to graduate from the University of Texas with a liberal arts degree along with a Mrs. degree. I was zero for two in fulfilling their expectations. Our relationships worsened when during my sophomore year, I dropped out of UT because of a little issue with my roommate. My roommate wanted to go down on me and I wouldn't let her. I successfully enticed her boyfriend. I did allow him to go down on me. Surprisingly our little liaison caused a bit of friction with my roommate. I had to leave or that girl would have killed me in my sleep.

After my brief stint in college, I decided that life would be more fulfilling if I traveled the world on my trust fund. My global adventures were spent sampling the food, the wine and the men. My global sexcapades were the cause of my parent's consternation. They had all but given up on me.

That all changed when after two years of globetrotting, I met Eric Lincoln. It started with a smile in a crowded airport lounge at Charles De Gaulle airport. After two hours in the customs and security queues, I welcomed the refuge from the blistering summer heat in the quiet, air-conditioned lounge. My goal was to catch up on a romance novel, have a couple of pre-flight cocktails, and grab a bite to eat. I sat at the bar and sized up all of the travelers as they walked in the room. There were mothers with fatigue written over their faces as they entertained their toddlers. The fathers were surprisingly refreshed and focused on reading the Wall Street Journal or the Newsweek magazines on the tables. That's bullshit. Fathers should step up and take active roles in their children's lives.

I was two Cosmopolitans in when a tall thin man with medium-length hair leisurely strolled into the lounge. He wore a tailored linen suit that was amazingly wrinkle-free. Freshly tanned skin enhanced his prematurely gray hair and days' worth of stubble. He navigated the lounge and found a quiet space at one of the tables. Trailing behind him was his then-girlfriend, Bronwyn Buffington, a snobbish, rich bitch. She carried several large shopping bags and flopped down in the chair across from him. She did all of this while talking loudly on her cell phone piercing the serenity of the room. I could tell that she was not only self-absorbed, but stupid. She was with a gorgeous man and she completely ignored him.

Bronwyn's stupidity was my gain. One thing that rubbed off on me is my mother's belief in being pretty at the right place and at the right time. I checked my reflection in my pocket mirror. While most women would opt for jeans and a sweatshirt or a terry cloth sweat suit for an international flight, I always put forth effort for flights. You never know what a little bit more effort would get you – an extra dessert, a seat upgrade, or maybe even a date. That day, I wore a black fitted pencil skirt, a white ballet-neck t-shirt and a pair of black Lanvin flats. I tied a thin, black cardigan around my neck to accentuate the look. I carried a recent gift from Mathieu, a small black quilted Chanel camera bag. I am grateful that I curled my mid-back length blonde hair into a cascade of loose waves. My skin glows as a result of daily nude sunbathing on the roof of Mathieu's flat. My full lips was highlighted with a berry colored lip gloss. As usual, I was gorgeous.

Ladies, there is a three-step method to getting a man. It is very simple. First, get his attention. Second, give him permission. Third, seal the deal.

I left my seat at the bar to evaluate the offerings at the salad bar and steam tables. I added a slight switch to my walk as I sashayed across the room. Walking slowly gave the air of confidence and ensured that all eyes are on me. With these breasts and tiny waist, I was sure that all eyes were on me. But there was only one set of eyes mattered. I was starving, but I decided to fill a small plate with salad greens, vegetables along with a tiny bit of fruit, a few slices of cheese and one slice of roast beef. I ate just enough to stave off hunger while still appearing ultra-feminine.

On the way back to my seat at the bar, I caught his gaze. I smiled and lowered my gaze. The shy girl act always works well. Men like that. He definitely liked it because he smiled and added a wink. I successfully completed step one with very little effort.

Step two is always the hardest step. He may not take the bait. Eric's companion was seated next to him. That was a bit of a risk. I wasn't afraid because I enjoyed a little bit of risk. I returned to my perch at the bar. I angled my chair to exude openness. It was an invitation for the handsome stranger to stop by and talk with me. Sure enough, before I could settle in my seat, he stood by my side. Jackpot! He ordered a vodka tonic. While he waited, he turned to me and greeted me with a seductive, "Hello there." Step two was completed.

I looked back at his table. The stupid woman's back was turned to the bar. She was still on that damn cell phone. What the hell? I returned his hello with an equally flirtatious hello. He smiled while extending his right hand. His smile illuminated his face and almost blinded me.

He was Eric Lincoln, the Chief Executive Officer for Lincoln Lumber. Lincoln Lumber is the Pacific Northwest's leading lumber supplier. The next words out of his mouth were a compliment, of course. He thought that I looked lovely and wanted to learn more about me. He regretfully mentioned that the present time and company made it an inopportune moment to sit with me and chat. He discreetly slipped his business card next to my drink and asked me to call his personal number once I returned to the states. I promised to reach out to him. When he walked away, I glanced at my watch. I completed all three steps less than one hour after he walked into the lounge. That, my friends, is how it is done.

When I returned to Dallas, I informed my mother that I met my future husband. She was euphoric with this news. She was so pleased she took me shopping for a new wardrobe in anticipation of the dates and events that I would attend with Eric. She didn't even care I hadn't formally met him. She only cared that an older, wealthy man was interested in me and that he would soon become my husband. My mother doesn't believe in wishes and dreams. She was a woman that received everything that she wants. She automatically assumed that favor will smile her eyes upon me, her only child.

After two days of recuperating from jetlag and detoxing from a month of copious alcohol consumption, I called Eric. Our first conversation lasted for hours. I learned that he was thirty-eight years old, single, never married, and no children. I hit the motherlode. No jealous ex-wives or pretending that another woman's brats were special and adorable, made Eric a prime catch. At that point, I knew that in order to have a nice, leisurely life, I would have to do everything within my power to make this relationship move to the next level.

One week later, Eric rang the doorbell at my family's compound. My mother pulled out all of the stops. She spent all day preparing for what would likely be a thirty-minute meeting over cocktails. My mother personally served gin and tonics along with an assortment of canapes. My father and Eric discussed sports along with the impact of the conservation lobbying on both the oil and lumber industry. My mother and I pretended to be engrossed in their conversation while we took turns going to the butler's pantry and adding more appetizers to the trays.

After one hour of animated discussion, my father apologized for holding up our scheduled activities. Eric held my hand as he bid my parents farewell and swept me away into the Suburban he rented. I knew from the telltale glint in my mother's eyes and the hearty pat from my father that Eric completely charmed my parents.

He whisked me off to an upscale sushi restaurant located in the Hotel Crescent Court where we dined on an assortment of sushi and sashimi. We topped the meal off with a large bottle of sake. After a lively conversation and several glasses of sake, I was incredibly inebriated. Eric deftly guided me to the elevators. While we waited for the elevator to arrive, he leaned in and gave me a slow, warm kiss. That kiss left me reeling and in a daze. I wasn't sure if the daze was a result of the wine or my complete enrapture of this man.

The atmosphere in the elevator was thick. Eric's arm was wrapped around my shoulders to provide support. For the first time we are intimately close, the intoxicating blend of the woody fragrance of his cologne, drew me closer to him. My legs were jelly-like and trembling with anticipation as the elevator made its way to the top floor. Each stop one would deposit a rider on his or her floor. After three stops Eric and I were the only people on the elevator.

Eric confidently strode to the door and inserted the key card. What happened on the other side of the door could change the events of our lives. If Eric was a lousy lover, I would eventually lose interest or worse, begin to hate him. If Eric was a proficient lover, I would spend the rest of my life following behind him and giving him whatever he wanted or needed. He opened the door and motioned me to enter the room, "After you."

The suite was luxuriously outfitted in high-end linens and decor. A few steps from the entryway was a sitting area with a small kitchen off to the side. The centerpiece is a large king-sized bed with white sheets.

"Elena, would you like anything to drink? I can open a bottle of champagne if you would like."

"No thank you. I think that I have had enough."

He maneuvered me to the large king-sized bed. Before I could fully consent to the direction of our relationship, I needed to know about the girl from the airport. I stammered, "Eric…Um. What about the girl at the airport?"

"We broke up. I dumped her after we arrived stateside. Right now, she is moving out of my home. But enough of that." He sat down on the edge of the bed and began loosening his tie. "You are the only person that matters to me."

Eric pulled me to him as he untied my navy blue knit wrap dress. The gentle tug at the bow exposed my black lace-clad breasts with matching panties. Eric buried his nose at the juncture of my thighs and inhaled deeply. My body responded favorably to the simple move. I wrapped my hands around his head to keep him in place. He looked up at me and firmly stated, "You don't touch me." The harshness of his words surprised me. He softened, "Your body will tell me when I am doing something that pleases you. I want you to be overwhelmed."

With his teeth, he pulled my underwear down. I moaned as his teeth lightly scraped the most sensitive part of my body. He unhooked my bra letting it fall to the floor. He gazed upon my complete nakedness and whispered, "You are beautiful, Elena. Now, I want you to lie back on the bed." I did as I was told and stretched out in the center of the plush bed. I shivered as he grazed the length of my body with his fingernail.

He asked, "Do you trust me?" I nodded. "Good." He lifted my head so that he could wrap the tie around my eyes. "Darling, be honest, can you see anything?" I shook my head. "Good." My heart raced at the sound of his belt unfastening and the leather gliding across the fabric of his slacks. What is he going to do? Jesus, what did I get myself into? Will he hit me?

Sensing my uneasiness, he reassured, "Elena, you don't have to worry about me. I adore you. Now give me your hands."

I eagerly lifted my hands and he kissed the outstretched palms. His tongue traced from my palm to my fingers and sucked each finger before looping and fastening his black leather belt around my wrists. The simple move sent shivers down my spine.

Eric nipped my erect nipples. I felt the absence of his presence as he walked to the kitchen. "Elena, don't move. I will be back." I couldn't see or reach out to know what was going to happen next. Soon the sounds of smooth jazz filled the room. He opened the refrigerator and the cabinets. I heard the sound of Eric setting a cocktail glass on the counter and the familiar clink of ice cubes hitting the glass. Ice cubes? He barely touched me, but I am on the edge of orgasm from the sheer anticipation of the act.

"Elena, you are a vision." I felt the bed move as he sat. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, "Remember, don't move. If you move, I will stop. If you yell, I will stop. If you moan, I will keep going until I make you yell and move. Do you get the picture?" I nodded as he unexpectedly bit my earlobe. Before I could recover from the sensual assault of that action, I felt his warm, hot breath nearing my ear as his tongue began to probe my inner ear. I gasped at the sensation of his warm wet tongue was my undoing. He placed his mouth against my neck and began to suckle and bite my skin. I willed myself to remain still as he continued with the sucking. I knew that he would leave a love bite. When finished, he proudly stated, "Elena, you are now mine."

I heard the clink of the ice cubes against the glass again. This time with his fingers he traced the frozen liquid from my neck to the center of my breasts. The warmth of my body melted the ice cube creating cool trails in my hills and valleys. With his cold mouth, he lapped the liquid from my belly button and continued his journey stopping at my stiff nipples. Once there, he sucked and nipped creating waves of wetness in between my thighs.

He knew the effect of his actions, and gently thrust his fingers inside of me. I bucked with the rhythm of his insertions. "Elena, you are so wet. Normally, I would make you wait. But I want you so much right now." I heard him unfasten his pants and he moved in to position over me. "I won't hurt you, but you will be fucked." With that statement he untied the tie and plunged inside of me. I was pleasantly surprised by this sensation. Eric completely filled me. He is in a class of his own. He would take me to the edge and then slow down and change position. He knew exactly what to do to make me feel good. He rocked me for an eternity. Each of us taking the other higher and higher until we both peaked.

The next morning, I arrived at breakfast with a jauntily tied scarf around my neck. My mother suspiciously eyed me as I sat in the chair next to her. She knows. She knows that Eric and I fucked. She isn't dumb or naïve. Suspicion turned into admiration. She is impressed. She smiled, "Elena, that is a lovely scarf. Is it Hermes?"

I brightly answered, "Yes. Last night, Eric presented it to me. Mom, let's talk." Avoiding eye contact, I took a deep inhale and my words came out in a rush, "I don't know how to say this. Tomorrow I am leaving for Seattle with Eric. I have no expectations. We haven't discussed anything. I just know that I want to be with him. I just want to be with him."

My mother tilted my face up, "Oh Chickadee. I will miss you. In terms of expectations, don't worry. Eric is a good man. Eric has exquisite taste in accessories and in women. He knows what he has. Now don't you fuck it up." We laughed as she lightly kissed the tip of my nose.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_"Sexual pleasure is, I agree, a passion to which all others are subordinate but in which they all unite."_

― Marquis de Sade, The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings

_We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey._" -Kenji Miyazawa

Some people believed that love, pain, sex, and violence don't exist. They diminished the three feelings down to neurological signals from our tiny nerve endings. Each interpreted differently from individual to individual. Their beliefs are the root of the adage "one man's pain is another man's pleasure."

For me, love is a pleasurable pain.

I left a life of global bed surfing to land in one man's bed. Eric owned a large stately Georgian home located in a private enclave. The house was a far cry from a bachelor's pad; it was a home designed for family life. The six-bedroom and eight-bathroom house was the perfect size for Eric's dream of two children and a doting wife. The beautiful home was decorated in mixtures of dark wood antique and contemporary furniture and softened in luxurious ivory, blue, and gray fabrics.

I learned that Bronwyn's interior design firm decorated our home. Most women would throw a tantrum and insist on changing it. I am not like most women. I liked the decorations and felt comfortable there. I had to hand it to Bronwyn; she had impeccable taste. But why should I be jealous of her? She didn't have what it takes to keep the man.

Seattleites are notorious for not being open to new friends. As a the result, after two months of living there, the only friend that I had was Eric.

The home had a full-time home manager, Mrs. Giselle Beaumont. Mrs. Beaumont was a petite, older woman with a kind and warm demeanor. She ran our household like a well-oiled machine. On several occasions, I attempted to forge a relationship by asking about her children and grandchildren. While pleasant, it was clear from her clipped toned answers that she was disinterested in breaching protocol. Her refusal to befriend me made me feel like I was a visitor inside my home.

I wandered around the house during the day, careful to stay out of the periphery of Mrs. Beaumont. I counted the hours until Eric returned home from work.

I tried to make suburban home life work, but there was always a part of me that remained unfulfilled. My spirit of wanderlust would take over, urging me to leave. Several times I sat at my laptop with my credit card in one hand and my passport in the other contemplating my next move. My finger trembled over the enter button as my mind and heart clashed over staying or leaving.

Each time my heart won. For the first time in my life, I was in love with a man that would lavish all of the attention and praise that I needed. Eric was my refuge from the doldrums.

So, I stayed.

Our living arrangement was my first experience with real intimacy. I didn't have a hiding place for rocky moments. I forced myself to stick it out and make our relationship work. Eventually, I fell into the rhythm of waking and slumbering with one man.

At the end of Eric's long work days, we would retreat to our bedroom. Before we drifted off, we would discuss our childhoods, goals, and dreams. Eric's great-great-great-grandfather was a settler from Tennessee. Through slightly evil actions, he acquired the land necessary to begin the lumber business. Throughout the one hundred years of business, the company grew into a multinational organization. Eric is the fifth generation to sit at the helm of Lincoln Lumber.

Most nights, I whispered sweet dreams and turned to my side before closing my eyes. Eric would wrap his massive arm around my waist and pulled me to him. His thick, hardening length pressed against my ass as nature guided my movements. Before I could register my next thought, he would flip me over and plunge his cock into my waiting wet pussy. We moaned in pleasure when he would begin his slow undulation deeper and deeper inside of me

Ever the consummate lover, Eric ensured that I was satisfied. In the bedroom and outside the bedroom. He lavished me with beautiful gifts – cars, shopping trips, and jewelry. He listened to my thoughts and never made me feel silly or immature. He made me feel like I was the only woman on this earth.

I have fucked enough partners to break speeding limits in small municipalities, so I am no stranger to sex. I couldn't get enough of feeling wanted and protected. I couldn't concentrate on anything but Eric. I obsessed over his location. I daydreamed of making love to him. I inhaled and exhaled him.

I needed him.

I performed every sexual move in my repertoire. I allowed Eric to leave love marks all over my body. I would say that I allowed him to leave love marks all over my body, but I didn't have a choice. The hickeys were a sign of his intensifying possessiveness.

I wore the small red and purplish marks as a badge of honor. I finally had love in my life.

He was imaginative and easy to arouse. Simple acts such as passing each other in the hallway would be a silent invitation to crash into each other. It started with his wink, which led to my blush and ended with whatever activity on his mind. He would pull me into a quiet, dark, secluded corridor, away from the prying eyes of the household staff, and push me against the wall. Without saying a word and a wild feral hunger in his eyes, he would untie my lounging pants before lowering to his knees.

With his face at the juncture of my thighs, he would take a deep inhale before he would flick his tongue against my pulsating flesh. I writhed in control as I lost control and sank further into his web. He took delight in the aromas and flavors of my sex, worshipping every part of me until he moved into a primal state.

After he had his fill, he would lift me and push my back against the wall while simultaneously removing my panties. Before I registered what was happening, he unfastened his pants and hoisted one of my legs up. Grabbing my ass, he pulled me onto his large cock and began to thrust. I relished the warmth of his hot breath on my neck as we both panted with the rhythms of our movement until we were both on the edge of orgasm.

He always knew when I was poised at the cliff and ready to fall into my orgasm. He would place his hand on my throat; the gentle pressure of his hand was a reminder of his dominance over me. His hand pressed tighter as I chased my orgasm until I crashed.

He quickened his thrusts as he drove deeper inside of me, always making sure to climax after me. He would stay inside me as our heart rates returned to normal. In the end, he'd murmur against my neck, 'You drive me crazy. I can't get enough of you."

Then there were moments when his tastes were a bit more specific.

My master (Eric) enjoyed when I dressed in a leather corset with matching thongs. A pair of six-inch platform shoes always completed the ensemble. I would sit quietly in the submissive pose until he decided to join me.

Lincoln's skill with the leather whip would frequently take me over the edge. If I wiggled too much or broke character, he would guide me to the settee and place me on his lap. He explained that I was a lousy sub and that it was necessary to give me a spanking to keep me in line. Alternating between slaps and rubbing my ass, he spanked me until tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. The tears turned to sweet relief as waves rocked throughout my core.

After my release, he pacified me by popping his dick in my mouth. I eagerly did my job as his hands rubbed/patted the back of my head.

Often after a flogging, he would soothe me by slowly unhooking the back of the leather corset and trace his fingers over every inch of my body. The touch sparked electricity throughout my body. After my surrender, Eric would fuck me on that settee. We rocked back and forth against each other until we both exploded in each other's arms. After he would gingerly hold me in his arms until we drifted into a long slumber.

Our sex life was incredible, and I loved him, but I couldn't give all of myself. Our relationship went to smoothly. All men can disappoint, and I wasn't sure how Eric would disappoint me. Would he cheat on me? Would Eric abuse me? Would he lie to me? Or would he stop loving me?

Though consumed with the willingness to be the kind of woman that Eric desired, or even needed, I couldn't allow myself to be fully satisfied with our living arrangement. The idea of being so vulnerable and catering to his whims frightened me.

I needed security. What if something should happen to Eric? Where would I go? What would happen to our home?

There was only one way to ensure a stable life, so I reached out to the authority on getting what she wants, I asked my mother for advice on taking Eric and my relationship to the next level.

Her response was that cooking dinner and fucking him wouldn't work. I needed to kick things up a notch.

She advised me to stop taking my birth control and begin tracking my ovulation patterns.

On the evening of our five-month anniversary dinner, I announced that I was pregnant.

* * *

Tricking Eric was easier than I thought. Eric never asked about birth control, and he refused to use condoms. We made love at least four times a week.

I was sick the morning of our fifth anniversary. Mrs. Beaumont stood at the threshold of the doorway and stared at me as I leaned over the toilet. I ignored her when she narrowed her eyes and said that I didn't have the flu. When I looked at her questioningly, and she glanced at my stomach.

I bounded down the stair and ran to my SUV. I nervously drove to the local drugstore and picked up several different types of pregnancy tests. I returned to the mansion and sprang up the stairs.

One by one, the pregnancy tests delivered the same result—positive.

I sat on the edge of the toilet and cried. Relief, nervousness, and fear coursed through my veins.

A child would give me something to love. A little bundle of energy with my looks and Eric's kindness.

I fantasized about the three of us playing and cuddling a chubby baby girl or boy. A little bundle of energy with my looks and Eric's kindness. A baby would give me a new reason to live — A reason to strike out and develop friendships. I could fit in with the young mothers that congregate at the parks. They are all so happy and exuberant while their children ran around the jungle gyms and slides. I imagine that could pop up with my swollen bellies and be instantly embraced in their crew. We would prattle about potty training, the best diaper delivery service, while brushing sand out of their children's mouths and handing teething cookies to the babies in the stroller.

I was nervous about Eric's reaction. Would he be happy? Or will he be afraid? Or will he ask me to decide about the fate of our child? Things that I didn't think about on that fateful day that I decided to get pregnant.

By the end of our fifth month together, I was late. I nervously drove to the local drugstore. I took several pregnancy tests, and each test I received a similar positive result.

I impatiently paced back and forth in the foyer. Before Eric couldn't wait to present the test result to Eric. As soon as he arrived home, I bounded down the stairs carrying all of the positive test results. I shifted from side-to-side as I awaited his reaction.

Wrinkles crinkled across his forehead as he attempted to piece together the obvious. For a brief moment, I was afraid that he wasn't happy. All my fears washed away as a small, shy grin took over his expression.

He then did the sweetest thing he has ever done in our relationship — he leaned down and placed a small kiss on my stomach.

We spent the remaining evening snuggled on the sofa and spoke our dreams for our future child. Each word a prayer for our unborn child.

Inwardly, I was over-the-moon with excitement. But on the exterior, I began to express discontent with being an unwed mother. Two weeks had passed since the pregnancy announcement, and Eric never discussed marriage. I became afraid that I would have to raise this child alone.

I spent Thanksgiving Day in a funk. My brunch was saltines and ginger beer. Our Christmas tree, while thinner than expected, was beautiful. I realized that my parents decorated the Mitchell Christmas tree without me. I would likely miss admiring the heirloom ornaments handed down from my great grandmothers.

The household workers spent the holidays with their families. After a quiet dinner at a local steakhouse, Eric and I were seated on the sofa gazing at the twinkling bulbs dotting the Christmas tree.

He leaned over the arm of the sofa and pulled out an aqua box with a red ribbon. He handed me the box and nodded that I should open it. I held my breath as I pulled the fabric and opened the box.

Inside was a platinum necklace accented with three diamonds. He kissed my forehead and thanked me for being the mother of his first child.

I plastered a phony smile as I turned my back to him. He fastened the clasp around my neck. I turned around in time to see Eric slip from the sofa and kneel on one knee. He asked to be my husband, provider, and protector for the remainder of our lives.

I squealed with happiness as I accepted the proposal.

Six months to the day that we met, and seven weeks into my pregnancy, we packed our bags and jetted off to St. Lucia for an early Christmas holiday. On our third day there we traded our vows on Sugar Beach with the Pitons as our backdrop. In front of the officiant and onlookers, we vowed to love, honor, and cherish each other.

We spent two glorious weeks frolicking on the clothing-optional beaches. We spent our nights making gentle and affectionate love underneath the stars.

Every night he prayed for my well-being while I prayed for a healthy baby and a strong marriage.

For the first time in my life, everything was perfect.


End file.
